


None of us are going back

by linndechir



Category: Mob City
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Depression, Gen, M/M, Non-Canonical Character Death, Revenge, mentions of past Ben/Sid, post-show
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-21
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2018-01-20 06:49:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1500830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linndechir/pseuds/linndechir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sid can't remember life before he had met Ben, nor had he ever imagined a life without him. When Ben is killed, Sid doubts there's much left for him in this world beyond revenge.</p><p> <br/><i>Since we won't be getting a second season, here's one version of what could/should/might have happened in the aftermath of Ben's death.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first chapter of a longer post-show fic I have planned (the current plan includes about 7 to 9 chapters, depending on how they turn out when I write them). Future chapters will also feature Joe, Ned, Terry and Mickey; I'll add tags for other characters and pairings as they appear. The fic will be mostly focused on Sid, though. I should probably also warn for some (off-page) non-canonical character deaths in later chapters because after how season one ended, there's no way everyone on this show would have realistically survived and lived happily ever after. 
> 
> Oh, and the fic briefly mentions Ben's family. In case you didn't know, real!Ben was married and had two daughters, he and his wife got divorced in 1946 and his wife moved back to New York with their daughters (I'm assuming this is why they don't get mentioned on the show). Apparently Ben's daughters were on their way to visit him for the summer when Ben was killed.

The day after Ben Siegel was murdered, only a few hours after Meyer Lansky had talked to Mickey Cohen and demanded the death of whoever had killed their friend, Sid Rothman turned up at Meyer's hotel suite. Meyer wasn't surprised to see him. If anything he was surprised that Sid hadn't come to him earlier.

His old friend looked like hell. He was still wearing the same suit as the day before; black circles under his eyes and dark stubble made it even more obvious that he hadn't slept since then. His eyes were too wide, his movements too jerky. He looked confused and at the same time frighteningly determined, to the point where Meyer hesitated for a moment before sending his men into the next room. He knew too well why Sid was here.

“Have you spoken to Mickey Cohen yet?” Meyer asked when Sid didn't react to his initial greeting.

“I have,” Sid said. His voice sounded hoarse and somehow distant. He looked around in the suite as if he had never seen it before, when in truth he probably saw nothing but Ben's ghost in one of the last places Ben had ever been to. A few steps brought Sid to the chair Ben had sat on the day before, and he ran his fingers over the backrest. “He says it didn't come from you.”

“Do you believe him?” Meyer had no doubt that Sid would kill him if he didn't. They had been friends since their childhood, yes, but Ben was the only person who had ever truly mattered to Sid. Sid's eyes finally focused on Meyer, and his frown deepened.

“I don't know. I want you to tell me to my face so I'll know if you're lying.”

Sid's stare was making him uncomfortable, and he felt too much like a man approaching a wild animal with nothing but blind hope that it wouldn't attack him. But Sid was his friend, he owed him a proper, private conversation without hiding behind bodyguards. So he stepped closer until only the chair separated them and met Sid's eyes.

“We didn't have Ben killed, Sid. Some of the guys back East never liked him much, but there wasn't even any talk about taking him out, let alone a vote.” He frowned when Sid didn't react. “Do you think I would have come all this way here to tell him they were cutting him off, only to have him killed that same night? Even if you don't trust my word, Sid, that wouldn't have made any sense.”

“Maybe you wanted to say goodbye. He used to be your friend, too,” and Meyer didn't miss the bitter reproach in Sid's voice.

“He was, until the end,” Meyer said. “You wanted me to tell you to your face, and I did. Do you think I'm lying?”

Sid stared at him quietly, out of red-rimmed eyes that must have been crying half the night. After what felt like a minute he shook his head and looked down. Meyer had never seen him so lost.

“Sit down, Sid.” He took Sid by the arm and led him over to the couch, made him sit down and poured him a glass of whiskey that he was almost certain would go untouched anyway. Sid had never really been one for drinks, even when he obviously needed one. Meyer joined him, while Sid stared ahead at the chair in front of him, as if he expected Ben to reappear in it any moment.

“We pulled a few strings,” Meyer said. “The police won't hold the body much longer. The funeral is set for tomorrow. Ben's family should be here by then; the girls were already on their way to visit him when it happened.”

“I don't think I will be able to look at them,” Sid said softly, finally tearing his gaze away from the chair and staring down at the floor instead. Meyer put his hand on Sid's shoulder and squeezed, awkwardly, but he still felt Sid lean into his touch just a little bit. He'd never been one for physical closeness, he'd always stayed on the side while Ben constantly slung his arm around Sid's shoulders to keep him close. They'd shared a bed every winter until they were twenty, and Meyer preferred not to think too much about what else that might have meant.

“I was too far away to shield him,” Sid continued, his voice thick with guilt. “There was no way I could have reached him in time.”

“And if you had tried, you'd both be dead now,” Meyer said gently. “It's not your fault, Sid.”

Sid glanced at him from the side, the corner of his mouth quirking up in something that couldn't have been further away from a smile.

“Should that make me feel better?”

Meyer doubted that anything other than getting his revenge would make Sid feel better, and even that would probably only give him brief satisfaction. Sid stared back down at the carpet, Meyer stared at his own hand where it rested forgotten and useless on Sid's shoulder as if to remind him of how little comfort he could offer him, so he pulled it back and folded his hands in his lap.

The silence stretched out for minutes, for what could well have been half an hour. Sid seemed almost frozen next to him, like he could barely move in his grief, let alone talk. As for Meyer, there were a lot of things he could have said – he could talk about the preparations for the funeral, reassure Sid that Ben's family would be well taken care of back in New York, maybe reminisce about the old days, when it had been just them and Ben against the world. But Sid didn't look like he'd want to hear any of that, not when just twenty-four hours ago Ben himself had been sitting in this very room and telling those stories himself. And it seemed wrong to break the silence with chatter just to say _something_. That had always been more Ben's habit than theirs. He'd always known what to say to lighten the mood, to make people around him feel better.

“It's too quiet without him,” Meyer said eventually. He glanced at Sid to see him close his eyes briefly, and he realised only then that Sid's cheeks and eyelashes were wet with tears.

“It's too quiet everywhere,” Sid replied. His voice sounded choked from too many held back sobs stuck in his throat. “I don't … Everywhere reminds me of him.”

Meyer's heart ached from Sid's grief almost more than from the pain of his own loss. He'd never depended on anyone half as much as Sid had depended on Ben. Sid had built his entire life around him, with no concern for his own wishes, with nothing to guide him but his love for Ben. Meyer wondered what Sid would do with himself once he had his revenge – because for all that he had given Mickey that job, he had no doubt that it would be Sid who would find and kill Ben's murderer. But after that? Seeing him like this, with tears streaking his face and looking as lost as an orphaned child, Meyer couldn't help but worry about him. He put his hand on Sid's back, another meek attempt to comfort him, or at least to remind him that Ben had not been the only person in the world who cared about him.

“You could come back to New York with me,” he said.

“I'm not going anywhere until I've killed the bastard that did this.”

“Of course not, but afterwards.” Meyer tried to meet Sid's eyes, but Sid refused to look up. “Revenge doesn't take forever.”

“I haven't thought about what happens afterwards.” Sid's voice was still shaking. “I've never thought about -”

“I know.” And Meyer did, better than anyone else. He'd known Ben and Sid for almost as long as they had known each other. When he'd met them they had already been inseparable, Sid constantly a step behind Ben, but always ready to jump in front of him at any sign of trouble. A skinny, scrawny kid that could already hold his own in a fight, smarter than Ben had ever been, but perfectly content with letting Ben take the lead. He'd loved Ben the way children loved, with single-minded obsessiveness and a promise of forever at an age when even a year seemed like an eternity, but somehow neither Sid nor Ben had ever grown out of that. They were still attached by the hip when they were twenty, and thirty, still so dependent on each other that nobody had been the slightest bit surprised when Sid had left New York with Ben to go West. Some of their friends back in New York used to joke that Ben was more married to Sid than he was to his wife, and although they all laughed about that, it wasn't entirely wrong. For one, Sid would have never left Ben.

Meyer didn't think Sid even remembered a life before Ben, and he certainly had never considered a life after him.

“You should think about it, in time,” Meyer said. “If you don't want to stay here, there's always a place for you back home.”

“Home,” Sid echoed bitterly. “Home is with Ben. I never cared if we were in New York or here as long as I was with him.”

Meyer squeezed Sid's shoulder again, but Sid barely seemed aware of the touch. Comforting people had never been his strong suit, not that he had ever found himself in the position of having to comfort Sid. Sid had been like a rock, even as a child, calm and controlled no matter what. For all that they'd known each other their entire lives, he didn't think he'd ever seen Sid cry.

“There isn't much to keep you here, is there? No wife, no children ...”

“And there isn't much for me in New York. Nor would New York remind me any less of him than this place.” Sid finally looked up, hazy eyes settling on Meyer's like he had trouble focusing. “I appreciate the offer, but I can't think beyond finding whoever did this to Ben and taking away everything they've ever held dear before I slowly kill them.”

“I want that as much as you do.” Meyer meant that, he desperately wanted revenge for his friend's death, although part of him wondered if Sid was truly the best one to deliver it – not that anything in the world could stop Sid from doing it himself. But he doubted that it would bring Sid much peace, or even any comfort. “But when that's done, you should think about it. You still have friends back East. I know how much Ben meant to you, but … you're not all alone.”

Despite Sid's nodding he didn't look like any of Meyer's words had truly registered with him, but at least he finally moved. Sat up straight before he got back onto his feet and took a deep breath, and his voice sounded a little steadier when he said, “I should go.”

“Any ideas about who was behind this?” Meyer asked as he got up as well.

“A few suspicions,” Sid said, and his eyes were finally looking a bit clearer again, his grief at least momentarily subdued by determination. “But I need to be sure. I'm not going to kill the first person I can think of and let whoever really did it get away. I will let you know when it's done.”

“Good.” Meyer reached out for him just as Sid was already about to turn away, took him gently by the arm. “Sid? Go home first. Take a shower, sleep, eat something. In the state you're in whoever killed Ben is just going to kill you, too.”

“Would that be such a bad thing?” Sid's voice sounded breathy, too soft, and he was still blinking too quickly. Meyer swallowed when he realised that Sid wasn't joking.

“Don't even say that. I lost one friend, don't make me lose another.” He squeezed Sid's shoulder a bit harder. “And you certainly wouldn't want to die before doing what needs to be done. So go home, try to sleep a few hours, and get to work with a clear head. Can you do that?”

Sid nodded, and to Meyer's relief he looked at least somewhat calmer, even remembered to wipe the tears off his cheeks with the back of his hand. On his way to the door he stopped by Ben's chair again, and again his fingers touched the fabric of the backrest gently, as if he could still feel Ben's presence. He swallowed visibly as he tore himself away, gave Meyer another brief nod and left.

Meyer sat back down with a sigh, hesitated for a moment, then emptied the glass he had poured for Sid. He would stay in L.A. a bit longer, for the funeral and to sit shiva with Ben's family at least for a day, but he would have to head back to New York soon enough. He had too much business there to attend and he knew that Sid was a grown man who could more than take care of himself, but he still felt uneasy about leaving him alone. Sid had always been quite capable of getting along with the people he worked with, but few of them had ever been truly close to him, and Meyer doubted that was any different in L.A. than it had been back in New York. He couldn't imagine that Mickey or any of the hitters Sid kept around would be able to offer him much comfort or support.

So all he could do was hope that Sid would take him up on his offer once his business here was done. He resolved to suggest it to him again when Sid would call to let him know Ben's killer was taken care of, but there wasn't much more he could do for him beyond that.

He didn't think there was much anyone could do for a man who had lost the only thing that had ever mattered to him.


	2. Chapter 2

Ned had barely closed the door of Mickey's office behind himself when someone grabbed his arm and pulled him aside. He tensed up, didn't relax either when his eyes met Sid's, but tried in vain to yank his arm free. Sid didn't let go and shoved him roughly into the next room, a small storeroom, and locked the door behind them. Just a week ago Ned would have felt a pleasant thrill of anticipation, but he doubted that it was a quick fuck in a dark corner Sid had in mind. He hadn't been the same since Ben's death, quiet with grief and seething with anger at the same time. The way Sid glared at him now made Ned wonder if he should have fought back a little harder, but he told himself not to be paranoid. If Sid wanted to kill him, he wouldn't do it here.

“What the hell, Sid?” he asked, hiding his unease behind irritation, adjusting his suit when Sid let go of him, not that the small room allowed Ned to retreat too far from him.

“Just need a word, Stax.” His tone was far from reassuring. _Stax_. Not a teasing _lawyer boy_ or _fixer_ , no playful threats, no smirk playing around the corner of his mouth. Ned swallowed, but he still kept a cool head. He'd known this conversation would be happening sooner or later. 

“In here?”

Sid ignored the question. He was standing by the door, a not so subtle reminder that Ned wasn't going anywhere until Sid let him.

“That cop of yours,” Sid started, venom in his voice, and Ned had to force himself not to let his fear show on his face, “You knew about him and his picture-taking ex-wife. You knew he'd intervene to protect her.”

“What makes you think I know him that well?” Ned asked carefully. Sid looked almost insulted.

“He served in the war, and I know you did, too; didn't take much digging to find out whether you served together. You had to know him from somewhere. Why did you get him involved, for her?”

For a moment Ned considered lying to him, but he figured at this point the truth was still his best option. He'd have to start lying sooner or later, but lies always worked better if they were based on a bit of truth.

“The blackmail, that was Hecky's scheme, not hers. Once she had the pictures, she didn't even want money, she just wanted to be left alone. And yes, I knew her, I knew she was too smart to talk to the cops, and I didn't want her to die.”

“So you lied to Ben.” The pain in Sid's voice when he said Ben's name made Ned flinch, the grief so thick that he almost felt bad for something he had really no reason to feel bad for. He didn't regret involving Joe to save Jasmine's life, much as he regretted what had happened afterwards. 

“I lied to Ben to protect an old friend who presented no danger to him. Hecky still ended up dead, we still got our hands on the pictures, it worked out perfectly. Would have worked even better if Teague had taken the money and not raised any questions about why he helped us.” Ned tried to keep his voice even. All of this would have been so much easier if Joe hadn't been so damn stubborn and created a situation where something was bound to go wrong sooner or later. Maybe it was Ned's own fault. He should have known that things rarely went as planned when Joe Teague was involved. “It was a good plan. If not for his temper and Ben's temper, this never would have gotten so out of hand.”

“Out of hand? That's what you call this?” Sid made a step closer, and all of Ned's instincts from the war told him to attack before it was too late, but he forced himself to stay reasonable, calm.

“Come on, Sid, there's a dozen people in this city alone who had cause to kill Ben, you can't be sure -”

“I will be sure before I kill him,” Sid interrupted him, his voice cold. “I didn't come here to ask you if your friend,” he spat the word out like that alone already condemned Ned in his eyes, “killed Ben.”

The certainty in his voice sent a cold shiver down Ned's spine. He considered a few lies, a few false leads that he could throw in Sid's direction, but Sid was far too smart to fall for that, and for all his usual self-control, if Sid Rothman had ever been in a situation where he might lose his temper, this was it. Ned had no intention of getting himself killed because he didn't know to pick his fights. He'd learnt that lesson better than the man who had taught it to him.

“Then what is it you want?”

“I want to know if I should kill you, too.” Sid's voice was so calm, so matter-of-fact that the words barely registered as a threat until a second later. Ned felt like a noose was tightening around his neck, and he hadn't thought he'd be in this much trouble so soon.

“For what?” he asked, relieved that his voice remained steady. “For involving him in the first place? I had no way of knowing what might happen. If I had, I would have warned Ben.”

“Is that so?”

“After everything Ben did for me? I owed him. I _liked_ him, I liked working for him. The last thing I wanted was for him to die. That's all I wanted this entire time, to resolve this situation without _anyone_ dying.”

“You didn't do a very good job of that, fixer,” Sid hissed, and another step brought him so close to Ned that they almost touched. The last time they had been this close Sid had curled his fingers around Ned's throat and bruised Ned's lips with his. Now Ned only wondered if he hadn't misjudged the situation, if Sid might not well kill him right here. “What did you say to him, outside the hotel?”

Ned took a slow, deep breath and forced himself to meet Sid's eyes.

“I told him to stay down,” he said. “I told him there was nothing more he could do, that he needed to stop fighting. He didn't say anything, but I thought he got that. Would I have gone back to Ben's house if I had known what would happen?

He felt emboldened when Sid didn't reply, the anger in his eyes pushed aside by careful consideration. And if Ned could save his own skin, maybe he could save Joe's, too.

“I'm sure people heard of what happened in front of the hotel, I wouldn't be surprised if someone saw that as an opportunity to get rid of Ben without drawing any suspicion to them. The Italians maybe or -”

“It wasn't the Italians. Or anyone else on this side of the law.” A muscle twitched in Sid's jaw, he glanced down briefly. “Those guys, if they did a hit like that, they would brag. Word would get around. Someone always talks.” He looked up again. “You know who doesn't talk? A cop who commits murder to protect his ex-wife.”

“That's all you're going on?”

“No. Like I said, I will be sure.” Sid stepped back a little, and Ned felt as if he could breathe freely again for the first time in minutes. Some of the hostility had left Sid's eyes, although Ned felt sickened at the knowledge that it was just being directed at someone else instead. Sid was still staring at him, though, as if he was trying to look right into Ned's head, but eventually there was the smallest nod and he turned around. Ned was tempted to ask if Sid was not going to kill him, after all, but he didn't want to provoke him unnecessarily. In his experience Sid was a reasonable man, he had to see that Ned had told him the truth – and he had, technically, since he'd really not known beforehand that Joe would do what he had done. But the Sid Ned had come to know quite well over the past year wasn't the same man as the one who had just lost his best friend, and Ned couldn't be sure that Sid wouldn't simply lash out even at him in the weak hope that it would make him feel better.

There was one thing he had to know, though, so before Sid could unlock the door, Ned asked softly, “What about the girl?”

Sid glanced back over his shoulder. The look in his eyes chilled Ned to the bone.

* * * * *

Joe had finished his second cigarette by the time Ned finally showed up, fancy shoes and expensive suit looking out of place in the dark, dirty alley. He looked less angry than the last time they'd spoken, but a lot more uneasy. He kept looking back over his shoulder as if he thought someone might have followed him, everything about his posture was tense, a far cry from the relaxed swagger Joe had come to expect.

“Why are we meeting here?” he asked when Ned had reached him, his back still leaning comfortably against the wall. Ned stepped closer than would have been necessary.

“Because it'd be bad for both of us if anyone saw us together right now, trust me.” Even Ned's voice was tense, he sounded slightly out of breath, too. “Listen, you need to get out of town. Tonight.”

“Yeah? Why's that?” 

The concern on Ned's face turned into irritation, as if it should have been obvious, and his voice dropped to an urgent whisper.

“Because you should have left days ago,” he said. “How long did you really think it would take them to figure out what happened? These guys are criminals, they're not idiots. You need to find Jasmine and get as far away from here as possible. Best leave the country, while you're at it, because I can promise you Sid won't stop looking for you. You didn't just kill his boss, this is personal for him.”

Joe lit another cigarette, unconcerned.

“So let him come. I can handle him.”

“Maybe,” Ned conceded. “If anyone can, it's you. But it won't stop with him. You kill Sid, Mickey will send someone else. You kill Mickey, Meyer will send someone else. And even you can't take out the entire damn mob, Gunny. All you'll do is piss them off even more.”

Ned grabbed him by the shoulders when Joe didn't react; he looked more insistent than even at the hotel, and Joe had to admit that day hadn't gone over too well.

“For God's sake, did you really think you could kill a guy like Ben Siegel and then just go on with your life like nothing happened?” Ned's voice rose a little in anger, but he reined himself in and continued more quietly, “You do something like that – and I get why you did it, I don't like it, but I get it – but if you do something like that, you have to live with the consequences. You don't get to go home and hope that nothing bad will happen. So unless you actually have a death wish, and frankly you've been behaving like you do for the past days, you and Jasmine need to get far, far away from here.”

“Jasmine had nothing to do with Siegel's death,” Joe snapped and shoved Ned away. “She wasn't even in town. Even Rothman should know that.”

The corner of Ned's mouth twitched, but his smile was far from amused.

“You think he cares? Even if she'd had nothing to do with the pictures, which would have been reason enough for Sid to kill her, he still wouldn't let her go.” Ned shook his head, made another step backwards. “You don't get it, do you? Just how close Siegel and Rothman were? Sid would happily kill a man's entire family for looking at Ben the wrong way, do you really think he'd let the woman you love go after what you've done to him? If you're not going to run for your own sake, at least do it for hers.”

Joe breathed out slowly, watched the smoke cloud curl in the night air. The only person he'd want even less near Jasmine than Siegel was Rothman. Siegel had simply been violent. Rothman had it in him to be cruel.

“I don't see you helping her, if you're that concerned,” he said.

Ned glanced down at the floor, and for a moment something like shame gleamed in his eyes. Fear, too.

“This is me helping her, both of you, and I'm risking my neck just by talking to you now. But I can't protect either of you if you don't do your part. If it's money you need, to disappear and to start over, I can arrange that.”

“It's not about the money,” Joe said with a glare. “I'm not going to run from those guys. If that's what I wanted to do, I would have done it last week. I did what I did so she'd be safe, so we'd both be left alone, not so we'd have to run off to Mexico.”

Ned shook his head slowly, still with a hint of guilt in his eyes, but his anger seemed gone now, replaced by hopeless resignation. He licked his lips nervously, and his fingers trembled a little when he pulled his cigarette case out of his jacket. Fumbled and dropped a match before he lit the cigarette with the second one, took an uneasy drag. His eyes darted from side to side, still refusing to meet Joe's.

_He's made his bed. He just doesn't know if he wants to lie in it._

“What do you want me to do, Gunny? Tell me, because I've played all my cards. My plan didn't include you putting over a dozen bullets into my boss and making the most dangerous man in L.A. want to kill everyone you ever talked to.” Another drag on his cigarette before he spread out his arms in a gesture of defeat. “So unless you can prove to him that you didn't do something you actually did – you need to run.”

Ned wasn't easily scared, not since the war, but he was very obviously scared now. Scared for them, but also scared for himself. No man wanted to survive the Pacific only to be murdered a few years after coming home, and by the people he worked for no less.

Joe dropped his cigarette stub, crushed it under his heel and finally pushed himself away from the wall. 

“Thanks for giving me a heads up. I'll handle it.”

Ned gave him an incredulous look, then shook his head again. Finished his cigarette, too, and he didn't sound too confident when he said, “I hope you will, I really do.”

He glanced at Joe, frown lines deepening on his forehead, and for a moment he looked like he had more to say, but then he simply turned to leave in the same direction he'd come from.

“Hey, kid?” Joe called out when Ned had almost reached the end of the alley. Watched him stop and half turn. “You like working for those people?”

At that Ned turned a bit more, his eyes meeting Joe's over several feet distance, and he cocked his head to the side. The gesture looked a lot more like the arrogant kid Joe knew, especially once Ned straightened up a little, and at this distance it was much harder to see the doubt in his eyes. He still hesitated for a few seconds before replying, as if he wished his answer could be different.

“That's another thing you don't get, Joe,” he said finally, his voice calmer than before. Harder, too. “I am one of those people.”


	3. Chapter 3

It was close to midnight, Ned had just finished putting away the papers he'd been working on and thought about going to bed, when a loud knock on the door disturbed the silence. He wondered why whoever it was had knocked rather than rang the the doorbell. Glancing through the peephole he saw Sid waiting outside, and he wasn't sure if that should reassure him or unsettle him even more. He briefly considered not answering the door and claiming that he'd been asleep already if Sid ever brought it up, but he knew that the light in his study could be seen from the street. Sid knew he was awake, and whatever this was about, Ned doubted that Sid's mood would be improved by being ignored. So he opened the door, if somewhat reluctantly. He didn't know what to say – they hadn't spoken much since Sid had first confronted him about Joe – and Sid didn't seem too talkative either as he came in.

For a moment Sid stood in the corridor like he wasn't entirely sure why he was there. Ned took in his appearance quickly – eyes moving too fast, still with an odd nervousness about him instead of his usual calm, his suit and his hair too neat for the middle of the night, as if he had showered and dressed just before coming here; his movements all coiled energy and violence that were desperate for an outlet. He looked more like he had right after Ben's death than during their last conversation or the few times that Ned had seen him since, when his single-minded determination to find Ben's killer had calmed his nerves. Now he looked once again like a wounded animal that didn't know where to run. Ned could only pray that didn't mean what he suspected it did.

Before he could ask why Sid was there, Sid suddenly moved, grabbed Ned by the throat and pinned him against the wall, with enough force to make the small dresser next to them shake. Ned clutched Sid's wrist on instinct to try and fight him off, but he realised almost instantaneously that Sid was not trying to kill him. His grip on Ned's throat was tight, but he wasn't choking him, his other hand started ripping angrily at Ned's clothes, while his lips brushed over Ned's jaw.

It wouldn't have been the first time they fucked in this very corridor, but something felt off about the way Sid touched him. Not only because Ned found that he was not even remotely in the mood for this, but because Sid's touch felt nothing like it usually did. Every other time there had been something playful about Sid's roughness, like he was toying with him, teasing him, always aware that Ned enjoyed every bruise and scratch Sid left on his skin. It had always been a game. This felt like pure desperation, angry and yet mechanical movements, more the lashing out of a broken man than anything else. Sid bit him more to close his teeth around something than to feel Ned flinch underneath them, and when the fabric of Ned's suit ripped under his hands he seemed more satisfied with that than with feeling Ned's skin under his fingertips. 

“What the hell do you think you're doing?” Ned snapped, tried again to push Sid's hands away. He glanced down to see how red the skin of Sid's fingers was, scrubbed clean, and he knew what that usually meant. A wave of nausea welled up in him. “For fuck's sake, Sid, stop it.”

Sid didn't react, and Ned grabbed his shoulders roughly to push him backwards, putting every bit of strength he had into the shove, and he was more than a bit relieved when he did send Sid stumbling back. He had no doubt that he would have been able to stop him, but he was glad he didn't have to punch him for that. He had no interest in turning this into a brawl.

Sid reeled a little, made another step forward as if to continue what he had started, and faltered again. Ned took him once more by the shoulders, squeezed them this time, and tried to meet Sid's eyes.

“Christ, Sid. I'm sure that's not why you came here,” he said, and when Sid glanced at him briefly, there was nothing but uncertainty in his eyes. “And I don't think it's what you need either.”

Sid licked his lips, and Ned could feel a slight tremor going through his body. He had to think of the rare nights when they'd actually shared a bed after fucking, of how Sid had turned around and pulled Ned closer until Ned's chest was pressed against Sid's back. How small Sid had seemed, curled up in his arms like that, and he seemed just as small now, broken and lost. Ned squeezed his shoulder again before his hand slid to Sid's back.

“How about you come inside, have a drink and tell me what happened?”

Again Sid didn't reply, but he did come along quietly when Ned guided him into his living room, gave him a gentle nudge towards the couch before he turned around to pour them both a generous glass of whiskey. He still felt oddly disturbed by the memory of Sid's touch, even though it had never bothered him before. He tucked his shirt back in, noticed with irritation that Sid had ripped one of the buttons off. 

He heard quick steps behind him, more aimless pacing than anything else, before the couch creaked softly. Then a moment of quiet before Sid spoke up, for the first time since he had arrived, and his voice sounded like someone had sandpapered his throat.

“I thought I'd feel better afterwards.”

Ned's fingers clenched around the whiskey bottle, and once again he felt a heavy knot in his stomach. He remembered Sid's brief comment to Mickey two days ago that it would be done soon, thought of Sid's clean-scrubbed skin and the smell of soap like he'd only just washed the blood off his hands.

“After what?” he asked, hoping that Sid wouldn't hear his voice quiver.

“After killing him.”

Ned almost dropped the bottle, put it down and watched his hands shake. He closed his eyes briefly, but all he could see was Joe's face after the beating Ben had given him in front of the hotel, and he didn't even want to imagine how much worse he must have looked after Sid was done with him. And what hurt even more, he thought of Jasmine, beautiful, smart, strong Jasmine, who had deserved so much more than to get caught in this mess. He took a deep breath, held it for a moment, breathed out slowly. Repeated that another time, and another, until his hands stopped shaking enough for him to fill their glasses. He still felt nauseous as he turned around to face Sid, who was sitting on the couch, hunched over with his elbows on his thighs.

“So it was Joe?” Ned asked quietly, hoping against hope that Joe had had the good sense to run after all, or that Sid had somehow been convinced that someone else had taken Ben from him. Maybe he should have gotten more involved, but he'd been too scared for that, too selfish. Too angry as well.

Sid glanced up, and Ned realised that if Sid had laughed at him in that moment, he might well have killed him with his bare hands. Or tried at least. But there was no smugness in Sid's eyes, none of his usual satisfaction over a job well done, just a cold weariness. He looked miserable, and weak, and Ned realised that if he truly wanted to kill Sid right now, he probably could. 

He handed Sid the whiskey glass, watched him stare at it for a moment before he took it and emptied it in one gulp, hands shaking worse than Ned's had just a moment ago.

“He really thought he could protect his ex-wife that way,” Sid said, his voice full of disbelief. Ned sipped on his whiskey and tried to think of anything but Jasmine. “He wasn't very bright, your friend, was he?”

There was still no scorn in Sid's voice, he sounded almost confused, like he couldn't believe how pointless all of this had been. That at least was a sentiment Ned shared. Three of the people he had cared about most in this world – maybe the only three people he had truly cared about – were dead, and for what? For a couple of pictures that had already been in Ben's possession before anyone had died, because of angry misunderstandings and tempers flaring up when all of this could have been resolved peacefully, without any bloodshed. His plan had been so _good_. He'd had it all figured out – protecting Jasmine, protecting Benny, getting some extra money into Joe's pocket. And now here they were, left with the broken shards of a situation that should never have been more than a brief little anecdote they could all laugh about years later. Ned went back to his liquor cabinet to grab the bottle, refilled both their glasses, and sat down next to Sid.

“He's … he was stubborn. Too brave for his own good, and he always thought that if he acted fast enough, he could only win.” Ned swallowed the lump in his throat, because that same bravery had saved his life during the war, but to his surprise his eyes remained dry. Part of him was still angry at Joe, for not playing along, for not being more patient, for not letting Ned handle this when this was Ned's world and not Joe's. For not _trusting_ him. He could have fixed this, could have convinced Ben to leave Jasmine alone, if only Joe had given him more time. Nobody would have had to die if they had just let him do his job.

“You didn't need to hurt the girl,” he said after a minute. 

“Maybe not.” Sid sighed, stared at the whiskey in his hand. The weariness made him look old, his skin a lifeless grey, the lines on his forehead deepened by his frown. “But he cared about her, as much as I cared about Ben. I wish I could have let him live with that, with the loss, the knowledge that he failed to protect her, but … this needed to end.”

The grief in Sid's voice was thicker even than the one Ned felt, and it seemed like such a cruel twist of fate that Sid was still here, when he had so much less to live for than the three people whose lives had been lost. Ned would have expected Joe's death to hurt him the most, but Joe had brought this onto himself, just like Ben. Both of them had had the kind of temper that got a man killed sooner or later, all rash anger and wild decisions that they never bothered to think through. If anything it was a miracle either of them had lived as long as they had. But Jasmine's death had been mere cruelty, nothing but Sid's attempt to inflict the same pain he had suffered himself. Ned's worst failure, when all of this had begun because he had wanted to protect her.

“I made him watch -” Sid's voice was still too even, monotonous and weak like every bit of life and strength had been drained out of him when he'd done the last thing Ben had needed him to do. It almost made his words sting more.

“I don't want to hear about the details, Sid,” Ned said sharply, gulped down his whiskey to keep himself from gagging. At least that got a small glimpse of life back into Sid's eyes.

“What, do you feel sorry for him?” Sid sneered. “He killed Ben.”

“And he saved my life during the war, more than once.” Ned hadn't meant to say that, and he wished he hadn't the moment the words left his lips. There was still a chance Sid might change his mind, kill him to get what satisfaction he hadn't gained from Joe's death, and the smartest thing Ned could do now was to distance himself, to think of his own survival rather than risk his hide for a dead man. But he couldn't bring himself to lie, not now. Maybe it was the grief, or the guilt, or the alcohol going to his head. “I understand why you did what you had to do, and I don't blame you for wanting revenge after what he did to Ben, but I'm not going to smile about the death of a man without whom I wouldn't be here. It's done. Like you said, this needs to end.”

Sid glared at him for a second, and another, a sudden tension in his shoulders that made Ned wary, but he found that he almost didn't care. He had overplayed his hand, and if Sid killed him now, well, he almost deserved it, didn't he? He laughed suddenly at the irony of it all, of him getting killed for Joe when Joe had saved his life, of him getting Joe killed when he had wanted to help him, of Joe killing Ben to protect Jasmine and signing her death warrant the moment he opened fire. The only question was which one of them had fucked up worst in all of this.

“Anything funny?” Sid asked sharply.

“Us.” Ned gave Sid a bitter smile. “Being still alive when they aren't. It's like a bad joke.”

Sid snorted, and it resembled laughter even less than the sound Ned had made. 

“I could still kill you,” he said half-heartedly. 

“Yeah, you could.” Ned filled his glass again, glanced at Sid questioningly and filled his, too. “You think that'd make you feel better?”

He didn't say it to provoke Sid, it was an honest question. Sid scoffed a little, and the tension seeped back out of him. Again he looked too small, too tired. Ned didn't think he'd ever seen someone look so utterly miserable. They were quiet for a while, sipping their whiskey more slowly now. It only occurred to Ned after a few minutes that he should probably be angry at Sid, that he should feel some hatred for the man sitting next to him, but all he could see when he looked at Sid was grief and pain. Living without Ben was a far worse fate for him than death.

“Have you ever lost someone who …?” Sid's voice faltered, and he gave Ned a helpless look, as if he had no words for what Ben had meant to him. Part of Ned wanted to say _'Joe'_ , but he knew that it wasn't comparable. Joe had saved him from almost certain death, he'd kept Ned going at the darkest time of his life, and the war could forge a closer bond between men in a week than any other situation could in years. But when it came down to it, Ned had only known Joe for the smallest part of his life, and outside of the Corps they had barely ever seen each other. Joe had mattered because Ned didn't have a lot of people in his life who meant anything to him, but he knew it wasn't even close to what Ben and Sid had shared. Growing up together, spending their entire lives together, trusting and relying on each other completely because they knew that no matter what happened, they would always choose each other first. Ned was no fool. He knew that Joe would have always chosen Jasmine over him, even if they had ever been more than friends. Jasmine had been Joe's life, the way Ben had been Sid's. Next to that Ned had just been some kid Joe knew from the war.

“No,” he said quietly. “Nothing like this.”

They fell silent again, and there was something almost companionable about that. It reminded Ned of the war, of how they'd sat together sometimes after battles, exhausted and hopeless and confused as to why they were still alive when so many others weren't, but somehow still grateful for it. Ned had always been a pragmatic man, always been someone whose mind was looking towards the future, not dwelling on the past. He'd never wasted a thought on his poor childhood when he'd been in law school, not beyond promising himself he would rise above that. He'd tried to think as little of the war as possible when he'd come back, determined not to let those nightmares ruin his life, not when he had _survived_. And he wouldn't let this ruin him either, wouldn't let it break him, wouldn't let it turn the people he worked for into enemies just because a childish part of him wanted some sort of honourable, noble-minded revenge for his friends. What was done was done, the only thing a man could do was pick up the pieces and keep going.

“I ripped your suit,” Sid said suddenly. His voice sounded distant, even his eyes looked empty as he stared at the long rip in the fabric of Ned's jacket. Ned had seen that look before, also during the war. Had heard those odd little observations of meaningless details, made by men who were trying to focus on what still made sense in a world that had lost any meaning. He'd watched men stare at mud and comment on the colour of some little plant like it would somehow explain the massacre around them. Ned had been there himself.

It made it easier to reach out and touch Sid's shoulder again, and somehow it didn't surprise him when Sid flinched violently before relaxing under his touch, and even leaning a little bit into it.

“It's no matter,” he said gently, squeezed Sid's shoulder until Sid nodded briefly. “You look like you haven't seen your bed in a week, Sid. Go home. We both need some rest. Mickey's going to need us in the next weeks, he'll need us both to be clear-headed and dependable, doing our jobs like we've always done.”

Ned let go of him quickly before Sid could touch him, because for all the sympathy he might feel for Sid's pain, he didn't think he could bear to feel those hands on his skin again just yet, or ever. It would have made it much harder to keep his mind off just what exactly they had done this very night. To his relief Sid got the hint and stood up, his movements unsettlingly slow and lacking their usual strength and grace.

He stopped after a few steps, looking every bit as aimless as he had when he'd arrived, and Ned had a feeling that Sid didn't want to leave, or at least that he didn't want to go home. Any other time, Ned would have asked him to stay, would have offered him the couch, if not his bed, but right now he didn't want Sid around any longer. Ned knew he would be fine, he had always been good at moving on, at accepting what he couldn't change and making the best of it, but he still needed some time to adjust. He wasn't sure if he should be grateful or not that it would at least be easier for him to move past this than for Sid. But he didn't ask Sid to stay, just waited quietly for Sid to pull himself together. Watched as Sid swallowed hard and ran a hand through his hair, even forced himself to meet Ned's eyes as he glanced back at him.

“Thanks for the whiskey,” Sid said. The words sounded as empty as his comment about Ned's suit. Ned shrugged a little to acknowledge them, raised his own glass and emptied it. Sid gave him a brief nod before he turned around again, and where he'd usually stroll out, he almost seemed to sneak now, and even the sound of the door falling shut was oddly subdued.

Ned found himself alone again, much the same as before Sid had arrived, but feeling far more dejected. He'd still clung to hope ever since he had last talked to Joe – hope that Joe would change his mind and run, or that he would come to Ned for help so they could figure something out or, even more unlikely, that he'd somehow manage to outsmart Sid on his own. But the situation hadn't fixed itself any more than Ned had been able to fix it, and now here he was: Ben dead because of his temper, Joe dead because of his impatience, Jasmine dead because of Ben's temper and Joe's impatience and Ned's inability to fix either. Somehow he blamed Sid least of all in this mess, far less than himself or Ben or Joe, because Sid had simply reacted to having the only thing that truly mattered ripped away from him. He'd lashed out like a wounded animal, and Ned couldn't hate him any more than he would hate a kicked dog for biting.

His mind kept running through alternative scenarios, wondering what he should have done different at which point, and every scenario ended with people not listening to him and killing each other instead. Ned grabbed the whiskey bottle from the table. It hadn't been full when Sid had arrived, and it was almost empty now that he was gone. Ned's head was already swimming a little, but he still raised the bottle to his lips and gulped the last bit of whiskey down without even taking the time to taste it, let it burn in his throat. He knew he'd have a worse hangover than he'd had since right after the war, but maybe he'd actually manage to sleep before that.

The bottle slipped from his fingers as he tried to put it back on the table and crashed down, but the glass was too thick to shatter, it bounced once, twice on the floor, and then lay there, as if mocking him. He thought it would have been far more appropriate if the bottle had burst into pieces and left him with a pile of shards, like the mess he'd made of this situation, but instead it merely reminded him that he'd drunk too much and that he'd still have to deal with the rest of the world in the morning. The world as it was now, without Joe in it, without Jasmine, without Ben. Just with Mickey left, who was every bit as stubborn and irascible as Ben had been, and Sid, who had looked so broken that Ned doubted he'd ever be good for anything again.

And Ned himself, a fixer who had managed to get his boss and two of his only friends killed in just a few weeks' time. He laughed at himself as he sank back onto the couch, his limbs too heavy to consider dragging himself to bed. All he could think in his self-pity before he passed out was that he and Sid would have probably done each other a favour if they'd been less forgiving.


End file.
